Authors: Kelly Gardiner
The Sultan's Eyes
ONTENTS
1
. IN WHICH OMENS APPEAR ON FLUTTERING WINGS
2
. IN WHICH AN OLD ENEMY TAKES THE STAGE
3
. IN WHICH HARSH WORDS ARE SPOKEN
4
. IN WHICH DARING PLANS ARE LAID
5
. IN WHICH EXILES FLEE YET AGAIN
6
. IN WHICH OUR HEROINE EMBRACES THE OCEAN
7
. IN WHICH OLD ALLIES AND NEW ARE REVEALED
8
. IN WHICH THERE IS UNFORTUNATE LAUGHTER
9
. IN WHICH TEMPERS FLARE
10
. IN WHICH THE WORLD IS SEEN THROUGH NEW EYES
11
. IN WHICH TREASURE IS NO LONGER HIDDEN
12
. IN WHICH AN OLD FOE IS UNMASKED
13
. IN WHICH A KING IS DEAD AND TWO QUEENS CONNIVE
14
. IN WHICH PROGRESS OF A SORT IS MADE
15
. IN WHICH MUCH THAT WAS HIDDEN IS REVEALED
16
. IN WHICH RUMOURS AND ROMANCES ARE REVEALED
17
. IN WHICH MANY PAGES ARE TURNED
18
. IN WHICH ALARMS SOUND ACROSS THE CITY
19
. IN WHICH MANY TRUTHS ARE TOLD
20
. IN WHICH SACRIFICES SHOCK THE UNWARY
21
. IN WHICH OUR HEROINE COMES HOME
22
. IN WHICH BANNERS UNFURL
I
N WHICH OMENS APPEAR ON FLUTTERING WINGS
In Venice, the days die slowly. Afternoon slides gently into evening. Pale sunlight crawls across yellow walls. The air feels a little thicker, mistier. People doze by open windows.
It was autumn, but there were few signs of it: no trees to turn a brilliant crimson, no leaves blowing through laneways. Just stone and water and a chill in the air.
We read, my friends and I, in a courtyard sheltered by red brick walls from the sea fog and the noise of the city. From there we could hear our printing press and the murmur of men’s voices in the workshop upstairs. I always found them comforting sounds. It was, I imagined then, the music of home.
Birds scattered into the sky as the gate slammed open. Someone shouted — Willem’s voice, as usual.
‘By all the saints,’ said Signora Contarini, ‘what is it now?’
Al-Qasim blinked, as if he was reluctant to leave the world of his book and return to ours.
Willem raced around the corner, waving his arms at the birds, tripped on a jagged paving stone and almost fell at the
signora
’s feet. She closed her book, marking the page with a ribbon of black lace.
‘Pigeons,’ said Willem. ‘I hate them.’
I watched their shadows flicker in the light above our heads. ‘How can you say that? They’re lovely.’
‘Rats with wings,’ he said.
Al-Qasim chuckled. ‘Think of them as supper. You’ll feel more kindly towards them.’
Willem grinned. He’d grown even taller over the past months, and the Venetian sun had baked his hair and skin to a deep gold. He still refused to adopt the local fashions, and had found a German tailor who sewed him breeches and shirts just like those he’d worn as a boy in Amsterdam. But new lines creased his forehead, marks of long hours and late nights bent over the printing press or the accounts. He was weary. We were all weary.
Bells in
campaniles
across the city marked the hour: some deep and soulful, some melodic, others muffled and distant. From the piazza, the ancient Marangona bell sounded the close of the working day. Our afternoon of peace was at an end.
Signora Contarini sighed, stretched her arms up towards the fading sunlight, then collapsed back into her chair. ‘I’m sleepy. This new book of Mister Wilkins’s may be controversial but it’s also extremely boring.’
‘His theories about flying machines are quite remarkable, though,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘I prefer a writer who can argue with wit, not mechanics,’ said the
signora
.
They bent over one of the illustrations, Al-Qasim pointing out the genius of the concepts, Signora Contarini tut-tutting over the coarse ink engravings. I loved these golden moments stolen from the working week, when we three sat in the sunshine or by the fire, reading and talking about books, ideas, our business and the latest news from the city and all over Europe. They were like long ago times a world away in my father’s library, although he had never relished gossip quite like Signora Contarini did.
Such peaceful hours were few and far between, though, and invariably interrupted — usually by Willem, who was left in charge of the workshop while we rested.
I sat up. ‘Will?’
‘What?’ He was scowling up into the sky after the long-vanished pigeons.
‘Did you want something?’
He blinked and looked around the courtyard as if surprised to find himself there. ‘Oh yes. I did.’
The
signora
hid her smile.
‘You need to take a break from work sometimes, too, you know,’ I told him.
‘Not now,’ Willem said. ‘Got too much to do.’
He slid some crumpled letters out of his belt, tried to flatten them back into shape between his hands, and passed one to Signora Contarini. She sniffed it, tested the quality of the paper between her finger and thumb, and turned it over to inspect the seal.
‘The Doge’s Palace?’
‘There was a messenger,’ said Willem. ‘Actually, a great troop of them. Fancy breeches. Funny hats.’
The
signora
broke the seal and unfolded the paper. ‘Willem, you must learn to recognise the livery of the Republic and all the uniforms of the court. You’ve been here — how long now?’
‘Two years,’ I said.
She smiled across at me. ‘It feels like only yesterday that you arrived.’
Sometimes it felt like that to me, too, when I opened the shutters in the mornings and was amazed, all over again, to find Venice outside my window. Or when a new book fluttered off our press and flew out into the world. But at other times, it felt like years and years. I couldn’t forget the slow months of mind-racking, intricate work editing and printing
The Sum of All Knowledge
, and of creating a new home — yet again — in an unfamiliar city. Isn’t it odd how time does that? It contracts and expands, both at once.
The
signora
crumpled the letter in her hand. I watched her, now a little anxious.
‘Don’t worry, Isabella,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. An invitation to the palace. To a reception.’
I let out a breath. ‘What’s wrong, then?’
‘It’s just — it’s next week, and my yellow silk won’t be back from the dressmaker in time.’
Al-Qasim laughed. ‘If that’s all we have to worry about, we are lucky indeed.’
Signora Contarini didn’t smile.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ I said.
She glanced quickly around the courtyard, then nodded. ‘The reception is to announce the appointment of a new Inquisitor.’
‘Here?’ Willem shouted it.
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Here?’ Willem whispered. ‘The Inquisition? In Venice?’
The
signora
sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you listen to anything I tell you. Venice has its own Inquisitor, as you’d know perfectly well if you just stopped to think. Until recently it was my uncle Tomas.’
‘And now?’ Al-Qasim tried to keep his voice calm, but he, of all of us, had more to fear from Inquisitors of any kind.
Signora Contarini stood up and threw a shawl around her shoulders. ‘I will make enquiries. It will come to nothing, you’ll see. The Inquisitor in Venice is nothing like those of Spain or Rome. We pride ourselves on our independence.’
‘That’s good,’ said Willem. ‘Because there are more.’
‘More what?’
He held out his hand. ‘More invitations.’
I didn’t move. Nor did Al-Qasim.
Slowly, the
signora
reached out to take the letters from Willem, and read out the names written on the paper.
‘This is addressed to Al-Qasim ibn Akbar, Astronomer and Cartographer to the Ottoman Emperor.’
Al-Qasim gasped.
‘And this one is for Mistress Isabella Hawkins, Philosopher and Adventurer.’
Signora Contarini pressed her lips together. ‘This is bad,’ she said. ‘This is very bad.’
I
N WHICH AN OLD ENEMY TAKES THE STAGE
The courtyard of the Doge’s Palace was crowded when we arrived. Signora Contarini led the way through the throng, nodding and waving to people as she walked. I noticed a few friends — other printers — and many of the city’s famous authors and composers. Even the historian Leon of Modena was there, making his way slowly up the Golden Staircase on his daughter’s arm.
‘Well, well,’ said the
signora
. ‘It seems we have all been invited. I don’t find that reassuring.’
‘We will know why soon enough,’ said Al-Qasim.
Willem, who’d come in spite of the
signora
’s protests, leaned down to whisper in my ear. ‘You see? They won’t notice another printer in the crowd.’
‘I’m not visiting you if you get thrown in the dungeons,’ I said.
‘You’re much more likely to end up there than I am.’
I smiled. I was secretly pleased Willem had invited himself along, even though Signora Contarini was sure his presence would bring disgrace upon us all. His attire, to be sure, left a little to be desired, but the rest of us had dressed in our finest clothes. I’d chosen a pale blue gown to match the colour of my eyes. The
signora
wore her yellow silk, which was miraculously ready, after all; no doubt her dressmaker had collapsed from lack of sleep and overwork. Al-Qasim looked magnificent in a flowing crimson robe. Tall and slender, with his dark hair and beard, he stood out like autumn leaves in a pine forest. Beside him, Luis was in black as usual, his silver hair and beard grown long again, so that he looked once more like a gentle philosopher instead of the adventurer who had chased me halfway across Europe. How, I wondered, had I ever imagined he was a sinister agent of the Inquisition? He peered through his eye-glasses as we walked along endless corridors decorated all over with lavish painted frescoes and gilded wood.
There were people everywhere, all moving slowly towards the Great Council Chamber, where they crowded, milling about and gossiping, in front of a dais mounted with a row of chairs and a large crucifix.
‘Doesn’t look like much of a party to me,’ said Willem, craning his neck to get a better view of the room. ‘I’m beginning to think I was wrong to come, after all.’
‘I can’t see anything but people’s heads,’ I said.
‘Nothing else to look at,’ he said. ‘For now.’
We made our way closer to the centre of the room.
‘All of Venice is here,’ said Signora Contarini. ‘At least, everyone who matters, even people who haven’t left their homes in decades.’
She nodded to an elderly woman in black velvet, three gentlemen in the latest fashions from Spain, and a portly priest
who stared about as if he’d never seen so many people in his life. Perhaps he hadn’t.
‘Willem, don’t speak to anyone,’ she said. ‘And if anyone tries to talk to you, pretend to be an idiot.’
‘That shouldn’t be too hard,’ I said, grinning as he pinched my earlobe.
‘You two …’
Someone called the
signora
’s name and we all turned as one. It was her cousin Pietro, who, as she always said, was one of the city’s wealthiest men and most outrageous gossips. He kissed her hand and mine, bowed extravagantly, exclaimed over Al-Qasim’s robe, ignored Willem as always, and nodded curtly to Luis.
‘So, my dears,’ he said, ‘you have answered the summons.’
‘As has everyone, it would seem,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘Who would want to miss such an occasion?’ said Pietro. ‘The Doge in his finery, the whole Council of Ten, a new Inquisitor all the way from Rome, why, there might even be dancing.’
Signora Contarini laughed. ‘You are absurd. But tell us what you know about this new arrival.’
‘I met him yesterday, actually,’ said Pietro. ‘He’s perfectly charming. I’m sure we’ll get along very well.’
‘How can you be sure?’ I asked.
‘You are nervous, Mistress Hawkins?’ said Pietro. ‘It’s understandable, given your history.’
‘I did not like the tone of the invitations we received,’ said the
signora
. ‘The wording was presumptuous.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Pietro. ‘The poor man has made an enemy of you both already, I see. Then I fear for him. He won’t last a month.’ He smiled. ‘But remember, cousin, it takes a while for a new Inquisitor to feel at home in Venice, to understand we have our own ways of
dealing with dissent and debate. I’ve seen it before, several times, with such people sent from Rome. They arrive filled with the zeal of prosecution and feeling the full weight of the Pope’s approval. But they learn. Venice is a cosmopolitan city. And we love our printers and our poets — at least, most of them. We welcome Jews. Even Saracens.’ He nodded politely to Al-Qasim.
‘It is not always so,’ said Signora Contarini.
‘True,’ said Pietro. The cousins exchanged glances. Pietro’s smile seemed more restrained. ‘We prefer to have our own people in such important positions, of course. But that is not always possible, and this Inquisitor is a man of the world, learned, affable. We’ll bend him to our will soon enough.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say so,’ said the
signora
. ‘I’ve been worried. It seems to me that no matter how charming he is, he knows far too much about my household.’
‘I wasn’t worried,’ said Willem. ‘But I am now. This reminds me just a little too much of —’
A trumpet blast from the other end of the room cut off his words.
‘Here they come,’ Pietro whispered. ‘I hear the Doge even had a new mantle made.’
‘Sshh!’
I couldn’t see the Doge and the Council of Ten as they entered the chamber, but the crowd parted as the procession neared the dais. The trumpets blared a slow march, and as the man in front of me moved a little I caught a glimpse of the official party making its way up the steps. Two guards led them, impressive halberds held high, followed by another carrying the flag of Venice. The Doge was behind them — he limped as he climbed the steps — followed by his Council members, men from the oldest and most powerful
families of the city. One day, we all knew, Pietro would take his place among them.
Behind the Council came a group of priests and monks from various orders in their white or brown habits. And behind them, a lone figure in a scarlet cloak.
All at once I thought I might vomit.
‘Al-Qasim!’ I whispered. ‘It’s —’
‘Allah preserve us.’
‘Oh no,’ said Willem. ‘Dear God in heaven.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Signora Contarini hissed. ‘Who is it?’
I reached for her hand. ‘The new Inquisitor,’ I said, although I could hardly make the words come out of my mouth. ‘It’s Fra Clement.’
She clasped her hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. She’d never laid eyes on him, but had heard our stories many times, knew all about his betrayal of Master de Aquila, Al-Qasim’s torture, the
auto de fé
and the grief that followed.
‘How dare he come here?’ She gripped my hand tightly. ‘Do not fear, Isabella. We will not let him near you.’
As she spoke, Luis moved subtly to stand in front of me and Al-Qasim, one hand on his sword. Willem drew in close on my other side.
‘We should leave,’ he whispered.
‘No,’ said the
signora
. ‘I will not be chased away, in front of everyone I know.’
‘Besides, we’ll draw too much attention to ourselves,’ said Luis.
‘He already knows we’re here,’ I said. ‘He invited us.’
‘Then we will show him we are not afraid,’ said the
signora
. ‘He cannot hurt us, not with the whole of Venice watching.’
So we stood huddled together in that crowded room while the Doge and then the Bishop droned on and on about Venice and the Pope until people around us yawned and shuffled and muttered among themselves.
‘Our Holy Father in Rome,’ said the Bishop at last, ‘has, in his wisdom, sent us his good friend and faithful servant to act as the eyes and ears …’
‘And nose,’ Willem whispered.
‘… of the Church in Venice, to root out all that is evil and heretical in this city and to return it to the light, in the name of our Father.’
Finally, it was Fra Clement’s turn. Through a gap between those in front of me, I watched him turn to the crowd and lift his hands towards the ceiling. He seemed much the same as he had when I last saw him, shrieking curses at me from the stage of the
auto de fé
in Seville: thin, dark and dangerous. His eyes were filled with spite. I wondered, all over again, how Master de Aquila and I had ever thought of him as a friend.
‘Good and godly people of Venice,’ he began, his voice thick with sarcasm, ‘do not be deceived. I have come among you with a clear purpose, and my arm is strengthened with all the authority of Rome, with the might of God Himself and His Holy sword of justice. Heretics have nested in this city like rats — blasphemers and false prophets and cynical philosophers who seek to spread dissent and discord all over the world.’
‘That’d be us,’ Willem muttered in my ear.
‘We do our best,’ I said.
Fra Clement went on. ‘I need only remind you of the words of the Gospel from Matthew.’ He closed his eyes and began to intone in Latin. ‘
Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or
the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil. Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven
.’ His eyes flickered open and he glared around the room. ‘I am your judge, in God’s name,’ he said. ‘Those of you without sin have nothing to fear. The rest of you — prepare to face your fate.’
He dropped his arms and glowered at all the faces upturned towards him. Willem gulped loudly. I did, too. The entire crowd stood in shocked silence as the Doge led the councillors, monks and priests from the dais. Fra Clement walked slowly down the steps, his eyes darting this way and that, searching the room — for us, I had no doubt. Willem and I instinctively ducked down to hide behind Luis’s broad shoulders. Al-Qasim stood tall, defiant.
The Inquisitor left and the room buzzed with people all talking at once. We stared in silence at the empty stage as if we had seen an apparition.
Luis spoke first. ‘He certainly knows how to make new friends, doesn’t he?’
‘Did he spot you?’ I asked Al-Qasim.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said, still gazing at the dais. The muscles in his jaw twitched. ‘And I looked into his soul and saw nothing but blackness.’
I shivered.
Willem pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘You notice he didn’t mention the part where Jesus says “Blessed are the merciful”?’
‘But he was so cordial only yesterday,’ said Pietro. ‘And now this warning shot across our bows, as they say in the navy.’
‘It’s more than that,’ I told him. ‘You don’t know Fra Clement like I do. That was a declaration of war. On all of us.’
‘Then war he shall have,’ said the
signora
.
‘My sweet,’ Pietro said, ‘keep your voice down.’
‘Why should I?’ she snapped. ‘He has already hurt my friends, hounded them across Europe, driven one to his death. Why should we put up with it? Here, in our home?’
‘Because he holds the power,’ said Luis. ‘Didn’t you see how the Doge and the Council bowed to him?’
‘They have little choice,’ said Pietro, shaking his head slowly. ‘They cannot be seen to argue — not now.’
‘Then they will have to argue with me,’ said Signora Contarini. She flung her lace shawl around her shoulders. ‘You wait until the Doge hears what I have to say on the matter.’
‘You can’t bother the Doge with this … this speculation.’
‘Don’t try to stop me, Pietro. I’ve known him since I was born. He will not deny me a meeting.’
‘I feel a little sorry for the Doge, really,’ said Willem. ‘First Clement appears, and now he has the
signora
in a fury.’
Luis smiled ruefully. ‘He is ill, and preoccupied with this war over Crete.’
‘It’s not only that,’ said Pietro. ‘The glorious age of Venice is finished. If we cannot control our own clergy, if Rome is now holding a knife to our throats, we are lost.’
‘You read too much into it, my friend,’ said Luis. ‘The Venetian empire will last a thousand years more.’
Al-Qasim shook his head. ‘It may last a thousand years or a thousand nights. But it seems the city cannot protect us, and that’s all that matters for the moment.’
I feared he was right, for all the
signora
’s bravado. Fra Clement,
with the might of the Church behind him, would stop at nothing. He never had. Al-Qasim’s broken hands were evidence enough of that.
‘You are wrong about one thing, Pietro,’ Signora Contarini whispered. ‘That Inquisitor. He won’t last a week.’
The
signora
fumed and roared all the way home. As soon as we got there, she tore off her shawl and threw it into the corner.
‘
Signora
, please,’ said Luis, ‘calm yourself. We need to work out how to deal with this.’
‘I have already worked it out,’ she said. ‘It’s quite simple. I will have Fra Clement assassinated.’
Willem burst out laughing, then just as quickly stopped. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said. ‘Can you?’
‘If it needs to be done, it can be done,’ she said with a shrug.
‘It would be simple enough,’ said Luis. He took an almond from a bowl on the table and cracked it between his teeth. ‘There are people who do such things, although it would be expensive.’
‘Worth every florin,’ said Signora Contarini.
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘I do not jest about such things,’ she said.
‘But that would make us no better than he is,’ said Al-Qasim.
The
signora
gave a little laugh. ‘Nonsense. Who have we tortured? How many old men? Women? How many printers, philosophers, poets have we burned? Eh? Tell me that. We could never be as bad as he is.’
‘She’s right,’ said Willem. ‘He’s evil. I always knew it. Didn’t I tell you, Isabella? From the very start?’